


slow motion

by shikae (39smooth)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Jazz - Freeform, M/M, Slang, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4256283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/39smooth/pseuds/shikae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1920s!AU. Joonmyun is a lonely vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	slow motion

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted april 2014, for sooheaven.

He has never managed to give up the habit, this noxious desire for the firestick that dangles from the corner of his lips, the smoke that twirls its poisonous little ballet through the air. Of course, why would he give it up, when it is the only thing that ever comforts him anymore?  
  
Kyungsoo makes a little upward motion with his chin. “You should quit.”  
  
“You’ve been telling me that for the past ten years.” The cigarette falls to the ground. It turns to ashes beneath the heel of Joonmyun’s Santoni, crumbling like his last hopes, the hopes he’d held when he’d asked Kyungsoo to meet him tonight, one last time. “Are you reconsidering my offer, Kyungsoo?”  
  
He receives a smile in return. “Are you reconsidering  _mine?_ ”  
  
Joonmyun smiles, and lights another cigarette.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It happens in the late, dark night, by the quiet lake outside the woods. Calm, still waters.  
  
Rustling behind the trees. A soft whoosh, a muffled gasp, a choked sob, a pained groan.  
  
The soft whisper of, “You’re mine now.”  
  
And the water stills again, leaving no trace, no recollection.  
  
The year is 1654.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He picks up smoking about two hundred and forty years later, talked into it by one of the old bums down by the docks in New York, who hands him a little rolled piece of paper and tells him in a raspy voice to set one end on fire and put the other between his lips.  
  
And what kind of a stupid idea is that? But he does, and the second the harsh taste of tobacco enters his lungs and burns upwards from his throat to his nostrils, he knows he’ll never be able to shake off the tangy pain that sits in the back of his mouth, nor the light-headed buzz that occurs around his temples.  
  
It’s the only thing that makes him feel alive, now.  
  
Two nights later, he drinks the same wino dry, down to his bones, and tumbles him into the Hudson.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Some years later, he runs into trouble in Paris, nearly gets staked by a crowd of rabid lunatics waving pitchforks and torches, and drinks his way through half a village before he’s seen by a pair of screaming children, babbling about the  _le croque-mitaine_  who’s just eaten their _maman_.  
  
He’s never really liked Europe very much anyway, especially since the East Prussia incident of 1721, and the time he seduced away a young minister of the Habsburg Monarchy to his death in 1725, which had resulted in numerous sightings of the undead and mass hysteria all over the area.  
  
The locals had been, of course, understandably upset.  
  
He decides to relocate to New Orleans, where the nights are young and the flesh younger still.  
  
The year is 1931.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“And a one,” shouts Jongdae, “and a two, and a  _one, two, three, four!_ ”  
  
The band strikes up a roaring tune, to the cheers of the crowd, and dancing ensues. Kyungsoo’s smile is especially wide on evenings like these. The thumping feet matching the beat of the drums, the trumpeting calls of the brass instruments behind him, the delightful piano that keeps in time with the tempo.  
  
Kyungsoo sings his throat hoarse every single Thursday, but he loves it, and he wouldn’t trade anything in the world for this. The Crack Rock is, at times, a seedy little place, but it’s got some of the best live music in the area, and Kyungsoo had been attracted to the exciting night-life and brilliant stage since day one.  
  
Chanyeol catches his eye from behind the double-bass, and winks toward the crowd.  
  
In the back of the speakeasy, a young man is nursing a brandy alexander between his palms, eyes intently focused on Kyungsoo.  
  
Kyungsoo slips easily into the next verse, voice soaring over the band, even as Jongdae slams his palms into the piano keys at a tremendous pace, laughing when Baekhyun kicks his stool from where he’s slamming out adlibs from his tenor sax, who scowls when Jongdae steps on his foot in return.  
  
“I think he’s a-lookin’,” shouts Chanyeol over the din, a few songs later, when another band has come up to replace them, and Kyungsoo shoots a glance over at the back again.  
  
The man is still watching him, this time with a scrawled smile across his features, fingers tapping on the table to the rhythm of the music.  
  
“I’m not,” replies Kyungsoo, grabbing a cocktail off the counter, “come on, pals, a toast or two. To playing larger sets!”  
  
“To complimentary liquor!” adds Jongdae, holding up his glass.  
  
Baekhyun grabs Jongdae’s drink out of his hand, and lifts it high. “To the band!”  
  
“To jazz, to swing, to all of it,” says Chanyeol, grinning, and clinks fill the air.  
  
“Mm,” says Baekhyun, chugging down his drink. He grabs another straight out of Jongdae’s hand again, and Jongdae howls in outrage. “Looks like somebody has acquired themselves an admirer, eh?”  
  
“A stalker, more likely,” says Yixing, their drummer, who’s just come back from the crummy toilets in the back. “He’s just asked me about you.”  
  
“That isn’t all wet,” says Chanyeol, nodding towards the lone figure. “He’s a real pip, isn’t he?”  
  
“You’re telling me that he don’t look like a grifter to you?” Yixing raises an eyebrow. “Sure, he’s good-looking. Most of ‘em con-men are.”  
  
“While this is all fun and aces,” interrupts Kyungsoo, looking unamused, “I’m thinking the cats want us back on stage in fifteen. Go on, get your drinks.” He hollers after Jongdae, who’s surreptitiously sneaking a hand up the shirt of a giggling Baekhyun, “And get a fucking room!”  
  
“Someone’s upset he ain’t getting any.” Baekhyun snaps a grin at Kyungsoo, and drags Jongdae in for a disgustingly sloppy kiss, stumbling back against the bar counter and knocking over a couple of empty beer bottles in the process.  
  
“Twits, both of them,” mutters Kyungsoo.  
  
He’s about to head outside for some air, when someone sidles up beside him, and murmurs, “You up for a drink, Do Kyungsoo?”  
  
“Only if it’s your money that’s going out.” Kyungsoo takes in the well-fitting clothes, fancy shoes, and upturned hair. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”  
  
An eyebrow is raised. “You saying a man can’t come into a well-known establishment such as this one here, and order a couple of spirits?”  
  
“I wasn’t,” starts Kyungsoo, but the man just laughs lightly. “You seem far too interested to just be here for the booze.”  
  
The man gives him a careful glance, before tugging a little white stick from his pocket, and pops it between his mouth. “What if I said I was here for you?” he says, cupping a hand around the tip of the cigarette as he lights it with a familiar ease, and shakes the lighter before settling it back into his pocket.  
  
Kyungsoo watches the smoke blaze from the ashy end of the coffin nail. “I don’t like smokers.”  
  
The man smiles again, and this time, it looks sharper. “My name is Kim Joonmyun,” he says, tipping his head as he gets up, and he sweeps himself into the crowd without further ado.  
  
How strange, thinks Kyungsoo, just as Chanyeol comes bouncing over, hollering something about repeating the second number for a wanting alligator or two, how strange he’d seemed, this Kim Joonmyun.  
  
Kyungsoo pushes it away from his mind for now, and leaps back up on stage, grabbing the microphone with a practiced sway, and he grins as the eager crowd calls for their second number again. “And a one,” he shouts, echoed by the clacking of Yixing’s wooden drumsticks behind him, “and a two, and a  _four, three, two, one!_ ”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He’s back.  
  
Sitting in the back of the blind tiger is Kim Joonmyun, the mysterious man who’d left him with a smile by the bar, the week before, and Kyungsoo wonders what he truly wants.  
  
The way he looks at Kyungsoo is unnerving. The way he smiles at Kyungsoo makes him feel uneasy.  
  
He tries to ignore Joonmyun, concentrating instead on the way his voice croons through the packed club, concentrating on the smooth notes that slide their way from the mouth of Baekhyun’s saxophone, concentrating on the sweet, tinkling sounds that flutter from beneath Jongdae’s fingers, concentrating on the low, thrumming tones that groan from Chanyeol’s bow sliding across taut strings.  
  
They play a fantastic set that night, and Kyungsoo nearly blows his wig when the owner of Crack Rock signs them on for a permanent slot every week, telling them that they’ve doubled his customers since they started playing.  
  
“We’re the absolute bees’ knees,” slurs a very drunk Baekhyun, draping himself over Jongdae’s back, arms curling around his shoulders. “We’re so darb, guys.”  
  
“We know,” says Yixing, patting Baekhyun’s head casually. Baekhyun makes a weird sniffling noise, and attempts to lick Yixing’s hand. “You need a hand getting him home?”  
  
“Nah,” says Jongdae, “I’ll ring us a taxicab.”  
  
“In the meanwhile,” says Chanyeol, “the pip is back.”  
  
“I’m aware,” says Kyungsoo, sneaking a glance towards Joonmyun, who catches his eye, and raises his glass imperceptibly. “And I’ve already said, I ain’t interested.”  
  
“For now,” teases Chanyeol, and he spins himself into the crowd to grab the hand of a pretty young thing, twirling her around with gusto as the band strikes up a quick number.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You’re back,” says Kyungsoo, the sixth time he sees Joonmyun at the same table, on the same night, “you’re not a prowler, are you?”  
  
Joonmyun snorts. “Me? A prowler? Do I look like one?”  
  
“Yes,” says Kyungsoo immediately, and a little smile appears on his face when he sees the nonplussed expression on Joonmyun’s face. “To your credit, I don’t figure you for one. It’s the rest of my band who does.”  
  
“Well, I assure you, Do Kyungsoo,” says Joonmyun, a spark in his eyes, “I am most definitely not preying on you. I merely want to know you better, is all.”  
  
“And why is that?” Kyungsoo can’t stop himself from asking. His curiosity wins over his manners, but thankfully Joonmyun isn’t affronted by the bluntness of the question, and just slides a gin cocktail across the table. Kyungsoo accepts it, taking a light sip as he waits for Joonmyun’s answer.  
  
“Your voice.” And there it is. “The way you sing, the way you command the stage. It’s exhilarating, observing you, observing the way you move across the platform, voice clear and smooth and completely confident.” A faint blush is creeping up Kyungsoo’s skin, but he pretends not to notice it as Joonmyun goes on, seemingly ignorant to his surprise at the words. “Also, you are terribly good-looking, I have to say.”  
  
Kyungsoo finally finds words, lodged halfway in his throat, and he chokes out, “Me? All those things you said—“  
  
“And they’re completely true.” Joonmyun smiles at him, and something in Kyungsoo’s gut twists and squirms, and it’s definitely not the moonshine. “Take my word for it, Kyungsoo.”  
  
There’s a pause that hangs in the air between them, but it feels easy. Not at all awkward. Companionable, almost. There must be something in the water tonight.  
  
“I will,” says Kyungsoo slowly, “Joonmyun.”  
  
Joonmyun raises his glass. “To beginnings.”  
  
“To life,” says Kyungsoo, watching the way Joonmyun’s expression flickers slightly at the words, “and to the roaring age of now.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Kyungsoo finds himself gravitating to Joonmyun more, after that one night, and his Thursday nights are spent sidled up to Joonmyun, talking, just talking, truly nothing more. Maybe Joonmyun really was being sincere when he’d said he just wanted to get to know Kyungsoo.  
  
It’s just the two of them here in the club, with the exception of a few stragglers, tonight. The rest of the band had headed home earlier, and Kyungsoo hadn’t minded staying with Joonmyun, who’d pulled him into a very interesting conversation on music.  
  
“I used to sing too,” admits Joonmyun sometime into their fourth round of drinks, a few months after their first meeting, “never with a band like you, though.”  
  
“Solo?” asks Kyungsoo with interest, wondering how Joonmyun’s voice would sound like, drawn out through the in-house sound system, backed by blaring trumpets and tooting trombones. “With a piano?”  
  
“Plays,” answers Joonmyun, smiling that sharp little grin again, the one that sends an unreasonable shiver down Kyungsoo’s spine. “I used to do theatre, many years ago.”  
  
“Years?” Kyungsoo’s lips quirk up at the corner. “When you were a little tot?”  
  
Joonmyun laughs, fingers curling over the thin roll resting precariously on the ashtray. “Not exactly.” His voice is hard, as if he’d rather not speak about his early years, as if something is keeping him from doing so.  
  
Kyungsoo doesn’t push the subject. “Why don’t you sing anymore, then?”  
  
Joonmyun takes a swig from his beer, sucks a cloud of smoke through his mouth, and exhales. “I find no joy in it, anymore.”  
  
“What?” exclaims Kyungsoo, who honestly cannot imagine not being happy when he sings. “How can you not?”  
  
“Oh, Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo,” says Joonmyun, almost sounding weary, “so innocent, so naïve. How I wish I had your youth.”  
  
“You sound like you’re eighty, pally,” says Kyungsoo dryly, and he nudges Joonmyun’s hand with his glass lightly. “Lighten up, yeah? You’re still young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”  
  
Joonmyun says nothing. He merely tips his glass to his lips, and downs the entire thing.  
  
Kyungsoo stands up, and glances around. It’s almost empty, anyway. “Come on.”  
  
“Where to?”  
  
He motions to the front, where the stage is. “We’re gonna play a little ditty.”  
  
The stool is too small for the both of them, so he drags a chair over and plants it next to him. “Sit.”  
  
Joonmyun looks amused. “You’re going to make me sing, aren’t you?”  
  
“Yep,” goes Kyungsoo, popping the ‘p’ on the word. “You ain’t scared, are you?”  
  
“Play,” says Joonmyun, and the sharp smile is back, “anything you want, anything at all.”  
  
Oh, is that a challenge, now? Kyungsoo sets his fingers against the piano, and runs through a number of songs in his head, before settling on one that’s soft, slow. A possible fit for Joonmyun’s voice. And as his fingers pad gently against the ivory and ebony pieces.  
  
And he’s right. Joonmyun’s voice isn’t anything like his at all, it’s the complete opposite. Like the tinkling of bells, soft, gentle. It reminds him of the pattering drizzle of rain on late afternoons, and the snow that falls, light and easy, in the winter mornings.  
  
“You sing well,” comments Kyungsoo, when he stops playing, and Joonmyun has stopped singing.  
  
“Thank you,” says Joonmyun, smiling slightly, and he glances up at Kyungsoo. “Coming from you, that’s an ace compliment.”  
  
Kyungsoo’s about to reply to that, when he realises Joonmyun is leaning closer. “Joonmyun,” he says, and suddenly the space between them has decreased, but why has he not made an attempt to further the gap? There’s a stillness in him that wasn’t there before. His fingers twitch against the piano keys, and he pulls his hands to himself. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Nothing,” says Joonmyun, but his voice is slightly breathy, and his gaze is intent on Kyungsoo. “Kyungsoo.”  
  
The air is strange, suddenly. Kyungsoo finds himself pulled towards the look in Joonmyun’s eyes. “If you’re going to plant one on me,” he starts, and that’s where Joonmyun jerks himself back, eyes wide. “I mean—“  
  
“No, no,” says Joonmyun, and he’s hurriedly standing up, “this isn’t how I wanted things to be.”  
  
He turns around, and starts off. Kyungsoo stares at him in confusion, still glued to his seat. “But… Joonmyun—“  
  
“I’m sorry, Kyungsoo,” comes Joonmyun’s voice as he leaves, the click-clack of his shoes a heavy echo in the empty room, becoming softer, and softer, until the only sound left is of Kyungsoo’s breathing.  
  
Kyungsoo glances down at the piano, wondering what had just happened.  
  
“What did he mean?” he whispers, absently playing a note or two.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He doesn’t see Joonmyun for a couple of weeks after. It’s unnerving, to look out into the crowd, and not see that familiar face in the back, at the same little table, hands clasped around a brandy, cigarette dangling loosely from the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Where’d your Joe Brooks go?” asks Chanyeol one night, as they’re packing up their instruments. “Don’t see him around no more.”  
  
“Something happened,” says Kyungsoo tiredly, handing Chanyeol his bow. “I figure he’s avoiding me for the time being.”  
  
“Lovers spat,” says Baekhyun breezily, passing by, and Kyungsoo chucks a drumstick at his back.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
To his surprise, he runs into Joonmyun a few nights after, not in the club, but out on the street, as they’re hurrying out of the rain. He walks straight into Joonmyun and nearly topples over, if not for Joonmyun’s hand shooting out to grasp his elbow, holding him up straight.  
  
“Thank you,” mumbles Kyungsoo, glancing up, and he freezes when he sees the familiar features. “Joonmyun, hi. Where’ve you been?”  
  
“Kyungsoo,” says Joonmyun, taken aback, and Kyungsoo spies a strange red stain by Joonmyun’s collar, washing off slowly in the downpour. “I wasn’t expecting you.”  
  
“Of course,” snorts Kyungsoo, and he tugs Joonmyun over to a nearby awning, “so, what’s your story, morning glory?”  
  
“A long one,” says Joonmyun, eyes darting around, “see here, I don’t think we should be talking out here like this.”  
  
“Why not?” Kyungsoo frowns. “Have I done something wrong? Or have you tired of me already?”  
  
“Tired? No, not at all, Kyungsoo.” Joonmyun stares at him, looking conflicted. “There are just some things I cannot tell you.”  
  
“And those things deem that we can’t be friends?”  
  
“Kyungsoo.” Joonmyun sucks in a breath. “If I tell you, you most definitely will not want to be around me anymore.”  
  
“And how are you so certain?” Kyungsoo stares at him, challenging. “Try me.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You’re bluffing.” Kyungsoo shakes his head. “It’s a lie, innit? Vampires don’t exist.”  
  
Joonmyun smiles, and his teeth have suddenly elongated at the canines. “What am I, then?”  
  
“You,” says Kyungsoo, “Joonmyun.”  
  
“I am,” says Joonmyun, stepping closer, and his eyes flash a strange colour. Kyungsoo’s eyes widen imperceptibly. “I am also no longer living.”  
  
For a second, it almost seems like Kyungsoo will flee. They’re standing in the middle of Joonmyun’s flat, a small place up near the middle of the city, and it doesn’t seem to suit Joonmyun at all, all old antiques and items from misplaced eras, scattered around the room, in comparison to Joonmyun’s sharp dressing and appearance. He seems misplaced himself, almost.  
  
But then, Kyungsoo takes a bold step forward, and whispers, “Tell me more.”  
  
Joonmyun meets him with another step. “What do you want to know?”  
  
He starts with the easiest question. “How old are you?”  
  
“I was turned in 1654,” says Joonmyun. Surprisingly, Kyungsoo barely reacts to that statement, instead choosing to nod, asking him to continue. “My age at the time was twenty-five, maybe twenty-six. It has been so long.”  
  
“Go on,” says Kyungsoo, peering at him curiously, as if there’s something to be studied with his features, as if he can take Joonmyun apart with his eyes and put him back together again. “I want to know why you befriended me.”  
  
“I told you the truth. It was your voice that attracted me to you.” Joonmyun closes in on Kyungsoo, harrowingly so. Kyungsoo does not budge. “Initially you were to be a one-off, just for the week, till I could locate my next fare.”  
  
“You,” breathes Kyungsoo, frowning, “you were planning to  _kill me?_ ”  
  
“Initially,” whispers Joonmyun, reaching up to press his thumb to the soft curve of Kyungsoo’s jaw. “But you were so intriguing. So sincere. So curious. I could not bear to do it.” He dips his head, and presses his nose against Kyungsoo’s neck, breathing in slightly. Kyungsoo shivers noticeably. “Though I still wonder how you taste.”  
  
“Joonmyun,” says Kyungsoo softly, and Joonmyun freezes in his motions, already moving to pull away, but Kyungsoo stops him with a hand on his arm. “You don’t have anyone else, do you?”  
  
His palm is now cupping Kyungsoo’s cheek lightly, still thumbing over soft skin, under his eye. “I have been alone for so long,” says Joonmyun, “so very long. And then, you were there, and you were everything I had longed for, for so long. And I don’t want to see you hurt, Kyungsoo.”  
  
“But how would you hurt me?” asks Kyungsoo, resting their foreheads together. The sudden contact between the two of them is strange, but it doesn’t feel unreasonable. It is scary how fast he has grown to be this comfortable with Joonmyun, when merely a few months ago, he was convinced that they would never get along.  
  
Joonmyun sighs, soft, sweeping. But he doesn’t answer the question.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“He’s back,” notes Yixing, on their next Thursday at the speakeasy. “You talk to him or something?”  
  
“Yeah,” says Kyungsoo, adjusting his microphone, “something like that.”  
  
Chanyeol taps at his double-bass, building up a little bit of background sound, as Jongdae hops onto his usual stool, and calls into his microphone, “You cats doing alright tonight?”  
  
There’s several whoops in reply. Kyungsoo laughs, and adds, “Yeah, I thought so.”  
  
Jongdae does a quick run across the keys. “And a one, two,” he starts the regular countdown, “and a one, two, three, four!”  
  
It’s a good night, figures Kyungsoo, seeing as the crowd dances and jives throughout the night, and they end up playing an hour past their regular slot, and everyone’s tired and happy and giddy. But the nicest part, he thinks, is likely to be the smile on Joonmyun’s face as he watches them play, watches Kyungsoo sing, and the smile is soft and very much unlike those pointy grins he offers Kyungsoo on occasion, reflections of his hidden secrets.  
  
He settles down in the seat beside Joonmyun when the night is done, and clinks their glasses together. “How were we?”  
  
“Are you really asking that question?” Joonmyun blows out a ring of smoke. “You were absolutely keen. Murder! Snazzy, and all those other cool kid words.”  
  
Kyungsoo laughs. “You don’t have to use slang just ‘cause I’m around.”  
  
“Well, I’ll have you know, that I am extremely up to date with the times.” Joonmyun raises an eyebrow at him. “Don’t try to be some kind of abercrombie with me.”  
  
“I’m not,” says Kyungsoo, still chuckling. “I have so many questions, though. So many things to ask! You must have seen so many things. Been in so many places. Met so many people.”  
  
“And never have I met anyone like you,” says Joonmyun teasingly, just to get a reaction out of Kyungsoo. It works. The flush that heats his skin is immediate. Kyungsoo pretends it isn’t there, and he reaches for his drink, downing it in one go. Joonmyun is the one laughing at him, now.  
  
Kyungsoo calls for another round. “Tell me about the eighteen hundreds.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The year is 1932, and it is then that Kyungsoo realises that he has fallen for Joonmyun.  
  
The easy banter, the stories that he tells, they spin from his lips like webs, and Kyungsoo has been caught in them completely. The soft smiles, the quiet laughs. They do not seem like they come from a monster, even though Joonmyun constantly says he is one, even though Kyungsoo says he isn’t.  
  
Trading phrases and verses over drinks, the absent skin to skin contact. A hand on his thigh, maybe his fingers along the small of his back, even their shoulders pressed comfortably together.  
  
Joonmyun’s eyes beam with affection. Kyungsoo thinks his own eyes might, too.  
  
But Kyungsoo is more perceptive than he lets on, and knows that the lingering touches and the wistful words are echoes of an old love, one that isn’t him, and he knows that Joonmyun will ask it of him, even though he knows Kyungsoo never will.  
  
It doesn’t come as a surprise to either of them, one night as they’re alone in the blind tiger again, sitting at the back and nursing a last drink, when Kyungsoo leans over and presses his lips to Joonmyun’s jaw.  
  
“Kyungsoo,” starts Joonmyun, but Kyungsoo is shaking his head, and pressing another light kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Joonmyun.” Kyungsoo gently faces Joonmyun towards him. “You’re the centuries-old undead, and I’m the one who has to make the first move?”  
  
“You know that’s not it,” whispers Joonmyun, but his hands are coming up to rest on Kyungsoo’s neck lightly. “Kyungsoo—“  
  
“Hush,” says Kyungsoo, “just this once, Joonmyun.”  
  
They kiss under the dim light of the speakeasy bar, hands twining and skin pressing warm against skin, and when they return to Joonmyun’s flat, Kyungsoo allows Joonmyun to press him into the sheets and mouth over his pulse, and they share papery thin breaths,  _one, two, three_.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Later, when Kyungsoo has regained the air in his lungs, and Joonmyun has stretched the slight strain out of his limbs, he rests his head on Joonmyun’s shoulder, and says, “I understand.”  
  
“Do you.” A hand comes up to splay against Kyungsoo’s hip.  
  
“Yes,” comes the mild answer. “I’m human. I’m going to die in the end. But you… you’ll just live forever, won’t you? Until the end of time, maybe even.”  
  
Joonmyun is quiet, but then he presses his face into Kyungsoo’s hair, and murmurs, “Would you live forever with me?”  
  
Kyungsoo turns to face him, and the sad smile on his face is enough. “Would you die forever with me?”  
  
Neither answer. Neither have to.  
  
They curl up under the sheets again, arm to arm, ankles entwined, palms pressed together and noses bumping, even as Joonmyun kisses him over and over, breathing the words he’s kept inside him for so long, even as Kyungsoo kisses back, taking the words, though knowing the words were never really for him, anyway.  
  
In the new day that comes, Kyungsoo presses his palm over Joonmyun’s chest, and imagines a solid heart beating beneath. “Would you truly want to turn me into someone like you?” he whispers, and he knows that Joonmyun knows he wouldn’t.  
  
“But what am I,” says Joonmyun, “but a lost soul?”  
  
Kyungsoo murmurs the words against his lips, “You’ve been found, Joonmyun. Now, go and find the lost soul that needs you, instead.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
When Kyungsoo reaches home, he sits at his piano, and hits a couple of dissonant chords, feeling the tight ache in his chest, the echo in his heart. He sits there for a few hours and plays the pain away.  
  
Later, he dials the band, and tells them about the new opening of a speakeasy downtown.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
In the year 1654, he had loved.  
  
They’d slip away in the afternoons, down to the lake by the forest, and lie on the rickety little pier, hands meeting, fingers entwined. Talking till the sun set, and leaving only when the sun rose.  
  
In the year 1654, he had been turned.  
  
He had staggered back to his home, barely able to walk, blood rushing in his veins like poison and blazing fire, heightening every single sensation. He remembered a pulsing urge, inside, that strong desire, that heady want, and he hadn’t known what for, what he wanted, what he needed.  
  
She had opened the door, words dying on her lips, as he’d realised what it was.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Joonmyun breathes in, and fire erupts in his lungs, anew. “She had been just like you.”


End file.
